waiting

I’ve stood for hours,
and made it to good use,
writing snippets of
you, with all the
reds and the blues,
and indulge on the
idea of putting you on
paper like a new quiet
masterpiece,
to a poet with swollen
feet and blisters on
her heels

I’m dazzled by the way
you crept into my mind
because of the simplest
of forms of waiting,
with mannerisms as familiar
and old to me; walking
back and forth over ideas
and the red clay floor,
biting my nails till I can see
the secrets underneath them,
and those cups of coffee that I’m
guessing
would be the answer to
every question they have
to me about you

In those seconds that I’m
trying to fit a perfect,
syllable that would capture
your imperfect everything,
contorting the words,
encouraging the thoughts
to weave through you,
the more I realize that waiting
and creating you in my
mind for myself won’t work..